


leaving this old fairground behind

by enjambament



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Dysfunctional Family, Families of Choice, M/M, POV Outsider, practically crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjambament/pseuds/enjambament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circus Au. Yusuf is the magician, Ariadne is the equestrian vaulter, Arthur is the fire-dancer, Eames is the trapeze artist, Dom is the ringmaster, Robert is the horse-whisperer son of the owner of rival circus Fischer and Friends. Espionage and popcorn ensue. Also there is a horse. Called Dandelion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leaving this old fairground behind

**Author's Note:**

> another repost.
> 
> Originally written for a kink meme prompt.  
> This is very Ariadne-centric, and though it's the main pairing here, I'd almost say the Arthur/Eames is sort of incidental...?

Ariadne goes to the circus on Saturday.

Whenever there is one in town, she goes if she can get away from home and watches them closely, very closely. She’s not looking for how well they perform; she’s looking for some hint that the people involved are good to each other. Ariadne wants to join. She isn’t looking for fame either; she’s hoping to run away from one home to gain a better one.

She’s just turned seventeen, raised with everything she could ever want and nothing she needed. In three months, Ariadne will either be sent to the awful boarding school her father has so kindly selected for her, or she will be far, far away, somewhere she ran to. She goes to see the Dream Circus knowing there’s not much time left until her necessary escape, but enough that she doesn’t need to make any panicked decisions.

The Dream Circus seems nice enough. She likes the feel of the wooden rides and the curving calligraphy on the hand painted game signs. It’s a small production, which Ariadne prefers. The magician, a man named Yusuf with a complexion like Assam tea and tight, dark curls, gives a performance that leaves her breathless. There is an elegant tightrope walker, and a slim, pale, polite looking man whom Ariadne thinks must be an announcer until he opens his mouth and breathes out fire like a dragon. Even Ariadne, who is no circus virgin, shrieks at that. It’s a _good_ circus, but nothing truly extraordinary, nothing to make her think _I would give up anything to make this world mine also_.

What changes her mind isn’t a death-defying act, or a feat of wonder. Nothing incredible at all, really. It’s something that touches that part of her yearning for family.

It’s late; the circus is closing and Ariadne slips around the back of the tents, trying to avoid the masses of crowds pouring out through the main exit. It’s cold enough that she’s shivering in her thin cotton jacket. Her mother and step-father said they’d be out late but as she checks her borrowed pocket watch she quickens her pace. She’ll be in awful trouble if she doesn’t beat them home. The servants are willing to tell her parents that she hasn’t been out, but their loyalty only extends so far.

“Hey,” someone says behind her. She freezes in place, thinking they must be speaking to her, about to yell at her for sneaking around behind the scenes. It wouldn’t be the first time. She turns slowly, and sees that, in fact, it’s the fire-breathing man, knocking on the door of one of the wagons. “I know you’re in there, Dom. I’ve got to talk to you about tomorrow’s line-up.”

Ariadne takes a few steps back, into the shadow of another wagon. Light pours from the threshold as the door swings open. The Ringmaster steps out, jumping the two stairs down into the night-dampened grass. He’s taken off his dark coat and top hat and is dressed only in shirtsleeves and dark breeches, but she recognises him easily.

“Sorry, Arthur,” the Ringmaster says. “I was putting James to sleep. Have you seen Phillipa around anywhere?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s in our wagon. Eames is reading ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ to her. I’ll remind her she’s supposed to tell you where she is on show nights.”

“That’s fine. I’m not worried if she’s with you guys.” The Ringmaster sighs, sitting down on the first step of the wagon. Ariadne decides to think of him as Dom now.

“Look, I came to tell you that Eames’ shoulder is still fucked. He’s not going to be able to do tomorrow night either. I’m sorry.”

“Damn it.” Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, more tired than angry. “I gave him a week. Your show is our main attraction. We had to fill practically thirty minutes of time with the fucking clowns. They aren’t _that_ funny. We’re going to loose revenue here.”

“Tossing yourself through rings of fire is just _slightly_ dangerous, Dom. I’m not letting him work again until he doesn’t grimace every time he picks up anything heavier than a book.”

“A _book_?”

“Well, maybe that was slightly exaggerated.” Arthur offers.

“Can he lift you okay, yet?”

Arthur makes a noise that clearly means, _not really_. Ariadne finds herself getting caught up in this half-understood problem. She’s worried for them.

“Daddy!” A young voice calls. Ariadne watches as a little girl in a plain cotton dress comes running from a huddle of wagons farther into the gloom of the misty clearing.

“Pippa,” Dom says, smiling as she launches herself into his arms. “ _Oof_.” He breathes out harshly as her weight hits his stomach. “Soon you’ll be so heavy I won’t be able to pick you up anymore,” he laughs.

“No,” she says. “I’m gonna be a tightrope walker like Mommy was so I’m have be light as a feather.”

“Hmm…maybe,” Dom offers dubiously. “Or maybe you can do _magic_ like Yusuf!” Dom says, sounding more enthused.

“Just because you’re terrified of heights,” Arthur says, dryly.

“With good reason,” he replies, sounding sour. Arthur’s mouth drops for a second into a frown with more sadness than Ariadne would expect from the flippant comments they had exchanged. He turns back to Phillipa. “And how is Alice doing, Pippa?” he asks, tipping his head to her like a knight to a damsel.

“She’s stuck in a house and she keeps growing bigger and bigger and she can’t get out,” Phillipa says, gleeful. Ariadne thinks it sounds like a familiar kind of life.

“Well, these things tend to work out for people in books,” Arthur says.

“I don’t know,” Phillipa says nervously. “Eames says you have to be careful about eating weird mushrooms that guys smoking hookahs give you like Alice did. He says worse things can happen than growing bigger.”

Dom laughs and stands up from the steps, propping Phillipa on his hip.

“Oh, Jesus,” Arthur says, slamming a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Dom. I can’t believe he said that.”

“It’s fine. You can tell Eames he has till Monday off, but Tuesday is our last night in town. If you guys perform that night I can work out some sort of way to claim it’s a special grand finale performance. Maybe I’ll get some customers to come twice.”

“Thanks Dom.”

Dom slaps Arthur on the shoulder and his teeth flash white and cheerful in the dark, briefly. Ariadne looks at her pocket watch and realises nearly twenty minutes have passed. She is going to be _so dead_.

But then again…maybe it won’t matter. She watches the retreating back of Arthur; sharp, deceptively slim, running errands for his show partner, and the silhouette of Dom in the wagon tucking his daughter into bed. She feels like maybe she’ll be somewhere new, somewhere home before anything her father can do matters at all.

\---

Dom is distractedly shuffling through the papers he’s just been to collect from the ticket office, so he nearly walks right into the horse blocking the entrance to his cabin.

“Jesus Christ!” he splutters as he drops the papers and they fly up, catching in the breeze.

The horse twitches one ear disinterestedly, leaning down to snuffle at some of the sheets settling in the grass.

“Crap,” a girl’s voice mutters. Dom peaks his head around the side of the horse. A young woman in jeans, a t-shirt and a scarf is sitting on his steps. Her feet are propped up on a suitcase and she’s holding one end of a long rope lead, presumably the horse’s.

She tucks the lead under the bar on the suitcase and scrambles to pick up the papers, saying “Sorry, sorry.” Her hair gets stuck in her mouth as she frantically picks up Dom’s bills. She looks about sixteen; maybe she could pass for eighteen at a push. Dom offers her a resigned smile.

“It’s fine,” Dom offers, taking the papers from her as she stands up, looping the horse lead back around her wrist, and pushing her hair out of her face with her other hand. The horse is now chewing on a particularly green patch of grass. Dom suspects she needn’t worry about it running off. “I should have been watching where I was going. In case of…horses.”

“It _is_ a circus,” the girl points out.

“We’ve only got smaller animals, dogs and a few birds,” he replies.

“Fair enough.” She sets her hand on the horse’s neck, as if she’s grounding herself. The horse seems much too tall for such a small girl, but it tips its head down, butting against her shoulder gently. Its coat is a light, dusty tan, but his mane is ink dark. Dom thinks the colouring is called buckskin, but he’s not sure. The girl rubs his nose. “Good boy, Dandelion,” she mutters.

“Are you and your horse and your suitcase here for any particular reason?” Dom asks, already knowing the answer. He thinks he’d probably like the girl; it’s too bad he’ll have to turn her away.

“I want to join your circus,” she says, plaintive.

Dom offers her an apologetic smile, “Look, I’m very sorry Miss—”

“It’s Ariadne.”

 _Good circus name, very mysterious_ , he thinks. “I’m very sorry, Ariadne, but we don’t have the space for a—”

“It’s voltige, like equestrian vaulting.”

 _That’s something not every travelling circus has_ , he thinks. “Right, well, we don’t have space for a voltige act. You look pretty young, do you even have any show experience?”

She bites her lip, shifting foot to foot. “Well, not as such. But I’m _good_. And I need the job, really, really bad.”

“I’m sorry, kid. The fact of the matter is that we don’t have the money to pay you right now. I’m only just making ends meet as it is. All those papers you just picked up off the ground were my bills. I don’t have the budget for another main act, especially not one that requires maintenance for the horse.”

She looks a little desperate, finger tightening around the mane. “I’ll…fuck…I’ll work for room and board for Dandelion and I. You don’t have to pay me a cent, just take us with you.”

Dom scrubs his hand through his hair. He can feel another headache coming on already. “We just can’t…”

“Look, my father is sending me to school in the middle of nowhere and Dandelion will be killed when I go. He’s a gelding and he’s not fast enough to race. My dad won’t bother to sell him off; he figures he’s got enough money. I thought I had three more months to make arrangements, but last night he told me he wants me gone by the end of the week. If you don’t take me, that’s fine, but please take my horse.”

She’s standing as still and strong as can be, with her chin tilted just slightly in defiance. It makes her look proud like a soldier and Dom suspects that what she wants is to cry. Is Dom really supposed to say no to that? 

He sighs. He just can’t catch a break.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says. “You can join, but I don’t even know if you’re actually any good and I don’t have the money for a performer, or the time to watch you work. I’ll bring you on with the same pay as the guys who work the rides and you can lead kids around on the back of the horse. He’s gentle enough for that?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “He’s as sweet as can be. Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” She looks like she’s about to add more, but she bites it back, keeping the words to herself, smiling now, at least.

“What?” he says.

“I just…I was jus wondering if there’s a chance I’ll be able to perform eventually. Because…because that’s all I really want to do. Ever.”

Dom feels that maybe there’s actually a chance he’s made the right choice here. No one lasts long on the circuit if they don’t love it. “Maybe,” he concedes. “There is a slim chance. I’ll show you the practise ring and your new wagon after I put this stuff inside. If you stick on with us for a while and the top performers and I agree you’re good, _possibly_ you can do a few shows.”

She grins a full, brilliant smile. “Thanks. That’s really good of you. Just, really...really great.”

Dom opens the door of the wagon and drops off the papers. Phillipa and James are making a mess with watercolours all over the kitchen counters. “You guys okay to be left alone in here for another twenty minutes or so?” he asks. Phillipa is pretty sensible for a seven-year-old, and as long as it’s only circus folk around, he’s not too worried even if either of them does venture outside.

“Yeah,” they say, in unison.

“Okay,” he says, already imagining the amount of scrubbing he is going to have to do at bath-time later on to get all the paint off.

“Are those your kids?” Ariadne asks as Dom leads her across the grassy clearing to where the animal trailers are parked. The girl is lucky they have a horse-box from when they used to have donkey rides, because otherwise Dom really would have had to say no to her.

“Yes,” he says. He knows he’s got a stupidly proud smile on his face, he can’t help it.

“They seem great.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I worry it’s not good for them, being on the road. But then they’re always looking happy. We’ve got a tutor with us, as the tightrope walker and the ride mechanic both have kids too. They’re getting an education at least.”

“Sometimes being stuck in one place is no good life for a kid either,” Ariadne says, softly, so that Dom knows she’s speaking from experience.

“Am I going to need to worry about someone coming after you?” Dom asks after a moment of silence.

Ariadne shakes her head, no. The look on her face says she almost wishes she had a different answer.

He shows her the wagon she’ll be living in after they’ve settled Dandelion in. “You’re sharing with Lucy. She does the fortune telling. You’ll probably like her. She’s a bit of a pragmatist.”

“A pragmatist fortune teller?” Ariadne asks dubiously.

“She used to be a political spin doctor. I think she thought it would be funny to become a real illusionist after she was fed up with politics.”

“Right,” says Ariadne, dumping her suitcase on the empty bed. She sucks in a surprised breath when she looks up and sees the constellations painted painstakingly on the wooden ceiling of the wagon. “Wow,” she says, quietly.

“You like it?”

“Yes,” she says, even more softly. Her fingers brush the homemade quilt folded at the end of the bed, the bookshelf with it’s motley collection of old classics rescued from charity shops, the fat silk ribbons tying the curtains back from the window, which is slightly open, allowing a popcorn breeze into the room. 

“Good.” Dom replies, suddenly swallowing against some strange emotion in back of his throat. “I’ll show you the practise tent now.” He says, gruffly. “There is a sign up sheet outside to reserve the space. You can have two single hour slots a week. If you become a performer, you get a lot more. The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are in right now, but you can still look around.”

“The trapeze artist wasn’t in last night’s show,” Ariadne states it like a question.

“You’ve seen us?”

“I wouldn’t have asked to join if I didn’t like the show.”

“Very sensible,” Dom says. “Eames, he’s the trapeze guy, caught himself wrong a few weeks ago. He’s been doing a few limited solo performances since then, but Arthur, he’s the fire-breather, informs me that if I want them back in their double act, I’ve got to let him have time off.”

“The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are a double-act? That seems unusual.”

“They’re fine on their own. But together they’re really spell-binding. It’s too bad you didn’t see them work together.”

“What do they do?”

“You’ll have to wait for a show to understand what makes it so good,” Dom says. “But it’s mainly about Eames swinging through various flaming obstacles. It looks a lot more dangerous than it really is. Arthur can do just enough acrobatics to work as a foil for Eames’ flips, but it’s mainly his job to deal with the fire.”

They’ve reached the largest tent now. It’s slightly smaller than the colourful big top that the main show is in, and made of plain, cream canvas, very functional looking. Dom sweeps a curtain back and gestures for Ariadne to enter. There are a few benches lining the wall. At first, Dom thinks he was wrong about this being Eames and Arthur’s practise time. Then he looks up.

Eames is sitting on the trapeze bar like a swing. He’s got chalk smudged up to his wrists and he’s wearing torn sweatpants and no shirt, but he looks good anyway, broad and tanned. He hopes poor Ariadne doesn’t get any ideas about Eames, or Arthur for that matter. Eames slips down confidently, holding on with one arm and then using the swing of his body to flip back up without letting go so that he’s standing on the trapeze.

“Arthur,” the man calls. “We have an audience.”

“Don’t start showing off, Eames,” a voice calls back. Arthur steps out from behind one of the stacks of equipment in the corner. He’s wearing tightly fitting dark clothing, possibly leather, and holding a bottle of paraffin in one hand and a metal torch in the other. “Hey, Dom,” he calls, waving with the torch-holding hand.

“Arthur, Eames,” Dom replies. “Just showing a new girl around. She joined today. Possibly going to be a performer.”

“Aww, Dom,” Eames calls down. “I’m never going to get that Jacuzzi I want if you keep hiring every bleeding heart that walks through our door.” He waves some kind of hand signal to Arthur who grumbles at him and sets the paraffin and torch down on the ground before jogging back across the room, pulling at some of the ropes until Eames’ trapeze swing begins to lower. When it’s about five feet about the ground he back-flips off. Ariadne blinks. Arthur crosses his arms irritably.

“My shoulder wasn’t even involved in that,” Eames says, defensive under Arthur’s glare.

Dom crosses to the middle of the tent, and Ariadne follows. “Ariadne, Eames and Arthur,” he says, “Arthur and Eames, Ariadne.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Arthur says, politely, shaking Ariadne’s hand.

“Charmed,” Eames says for his turn, and brushes his lips across her knuckles instead of shaking. Ariadne flushes and Dom feels his headache start to return.

“So, what’s your act?” Eames says, smiling. As usual, he’s managed to look so genuine he’s come through the other side into slyness again. Dom doesn’t know how he does that, but it’s absolutely ridiculous.

“Voltige,” Ariadne says.

“You have a horse?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, I brought him with. But I’m only working in rides for now.”

“Ah,” Arthur says. He and Eames exchange a cryptic look that Dom knows from experience means he’ll be grilled on the circus budget by one of them later.

“How’s the practising?” Dom asks, leadingly. He’ll have to figure out something drastic if Eames can’t work on Tuesday, but he won’t have Eames tearing any ligaments beyond repair either.

Eames takes a step back from them and reaches out, slinging one arm around Arthur’s waist with smooth familiarity. Before Dom can blink, and he always does _try_ to see how they do it, Eames has tugged Arthur’s feet off the ground like he weighs nothing. Arthur melts into the motion easily. Dom doesn’t know if he predicts Eames tricks or they’re all meticulously planned, but Eames rolls Arthur over his back like they’re liquid together and sets him lightly on the other side of Dom. Arthur turns his face down, looking away, which Dom knows means he’s probably smiling enough to show dimples.

“Wow,” Ariadne breaths from beside him, so soft he might have imagined it.

“Well, just be careful. You’re looking better anyway. You’re still okay for Tuseday?”

“Don’t look at me,” Eames says, holding up one hand, in mock defence. “It’s ‘Doctor’ Arthur over here who’s holding us all back.”

Arthur’s lips thin. “It was a bad twist, Eames,” he says, tightly.

Eames stance softens momentarily and he shifts his hips to bump gently with Arthur’s. “No real harm done. It’s nothing in comparison to those wicked burns you got last year, eh?”

“He’ll be good for Tuesday,” Arthur sighs. “ _If_ we manage to get enough practice in.”

“Right, right,” Dom says, catching the hint. “We’ll just get out of your way.”

“Nice meeting you,” Ariadne says, waving.

“Same to you,” Arthur and Eames chorus together.

Dom leaves Ariadne to wander on her own, promising to introduce her to more people that evening. She thanks him again. He watches her as she ambles off. She seems lighter on her feet than she had when he’d first seen her, looking dejected on his front step. He thinks maybe he’s done a good deed today.

\---

Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she understands that not everyone lives the way she lives – the only way she can remember ever living. She wouldn’t want it any different, though. She likes the feel of picking up and moving off again, like everything most important can come with her on the road.

New people join up with the circus every year, and most of the time they leave again. Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she also, understands that moving and moving and moving isn’t easy for everyone. There was an acrobat who was with them a little while before she decided to stay on in a Vegas show that used to braid Phillipa’s hair and help her make daisy chains. She sang Phillipa the kind of lullabies that she thinks her mom might have sung – songs in another half-familiar language.

The lady told Phillipa she wasn’t going on with the circus anymore and to visit whenever she was in town, and Phillipa didn’t even have to ask why. Some people need roots to live right, and some people need wind. Phillipa has always been a wind kind of girl.

On Monday, Ari lets Phillipa help with the horse ride. She hopes that Ari is a wind kind of girl too, because she’s really nice, and Phillipa doesn’t want her to leave. They weave ribbons and flowers through Dandelion’s bridle. Ari shows Phillipa how to bend her knees and sit up straight on Dandelion’s back early in the morning so that Phillipa can do the safety demonstrations for the townie kids who come for rides. Dandelion has big brown eyes and his nose is soft like the velvet ribbons Yusuf gave her for her birthday last year.

At noon, her dad comes over and talks to Ari for a little bit. Phillipa feeds Dandelion pieces of carrots and some mints she found in her pocket.

Phillipa’s dad says, “You getting many customers?”

“Sure,” Ari says back, “Here’s the ticket list. I’ll do a better sign when I’ve got some time and we’ll probably get more.”

“This is really good intake anyway, Ariadne. I’m…impressed. I hope Phillipa isn’t bothering you. She has the run of the place usually, but I can understand if you’ve got enough on your plate.”

“I’m not _bothering_ Ari,” Phillipa announces, crossly.

“Ariadne is still getting used to things round here, maybe she doesn’t need you under her feet,” he says in his ‘ _use your manners, Pippa_ ’ voice.

“She really isn’t.” Ari smiles. “She’s actually a big help. I don’t quite know my way around things yet.”

“Okay,” Dad says, shrugging. He ruffles Phillipa’s hair and she glares up at him. “Will you take Ariadne along to lunch at one thirty?” he asks. “Arthur is helping me with taxes in the ticket office, but he’ll be done then. You two can sit with him so Ariadne can have some adult conversation.”

“I can have good adult conversations,” Phillipa sulks, but she agrees anyway.

Arthur’s saved them spaces at one of the tables in the Food Hall, which is really just a big trailer with a kitchen at the back. May, the head caterer, and her helpers set out the meals. Dad and Arthur and Eames and some of the other people with the most important jobs don’t have to eat in the Food Hall unless they feel like it, ‘cause they’ve got kitchens in their wagons, but everyone else always does.

“Hello there,” Arthur says, as they come over, “Pippa, do you mind introducing Ariadne to May? I’ve already got something to eat.”

“No problem,” Phillipa says, confidently, taking Ari’s hand and leading her across the room. People at other tables say hello to Phillipa as they head over to the kitchen counters.

“Do you know _everyone_ , Pippa?” Ari asks.

“Pretty much,” she replies, proud.

“Do you like living with the circus?” Ari asks. She sounds different than before, like she’s asking because she really needs the answer.

“Yeah, it’s really good,” Phillipa says, seriously, squeezing Ari’s hand tightly. “Are you worried you won’t like it?”

“No,” Ari answers quickly. She looks down at her feet. “Maybe. I’ve never been away from home except for on trips with my family. And they weren’t very fun. But I liked seeing the different places.”

“The cool thing about being in the circus is you can go to all different places but you don’t even have to leave your home behind, it just comes with.”

Ari smiles and bends down enough that she can wrap one arm around Phillipa in a half-hug. “You’re a pretty good kid, Pippa,” she says. Phillipa beams back up at her.

While they’re eating, Ari and Arthur talk about some boring stuff Phillipa doesn’t pay attention to like the touring dates for the next month and where they’re headed too next, but Ari does tell Arthur about Dandelion and the tricks she can do which is more exciting. Phillipa asks loads of questions about that.

Afterwards, Phillipa goes to hang out with Arthur, so Ari can have her hour of performance practice with Dandelion. They talk to Yusuf for a little and then they drive to town to pick up Eames from a doctor’s appointment. In the car on the way back, Arthur doesn’t talk much to Eames, and Eames looks confused because Arthur keeps giving him a short, sharp answers.

“Have I _done_ something?” Eames asks finally, looking out the window and playing with the automatic lock. Arthur hates it when people play with the automatic lock in the car. He even yells at Phillipa if she does it too much. She looks down at the fabric of her dress. It’s weird when Arthur and Eames fight. It was a long time ago now, but she can remember her mom and dad fighting, before mom fell – it feels the same way, and she hates it.

Arthur runs his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, you’re mad about something,” Eames says, pointedly.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You could tell me, and then I can help.”

“Just drop it,” Arthur snaps. Eames stiffens and hunches down in his seat. Arthur sighs, and lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to touch Eames’ wrist. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m dealing with it. I’ll tell you later.”

When they get back to the fairground, they go to the practice tent so Arthur and Eames can run through their performance for tomorrow night. Phillipa’s glad because working usually puts them in a good mood. She guesses it’s because they have to pay really close, careful attention to each other to get it right.

Phillipa doesn’t really like the idea of being a fire-breather or a trapeze artist herself. She swings on the trapeze sometimes, as long as Eames is there to watch and the safety net is up. It’s a lot more fun to tightrope walk. But watching Arthur and Eames is still really amazing.

Phillipa likes the way they stand together after they’ve finished a really scary trick, leaning into each other as if doing something so spectacular has broken up the lines between them that make them separate people.

They walk her back to her wagon for dinner. Eames picks Phillipa up and puts her on his shoulders. He smells like smoke from holding so tightly to Arthur during their practice. Arthur puts his arm around Eames’ waist while they walk, and they speak to each other soft and close, almost into each other’s ears, so even Phillipa can barely hear them.

After dinner it’s time for tonight’s performance, but Phillipa is tired enough that she doesn’t insist on staying up until after her dad has come back in. She falls asleep slowly, to the sound of the opening music and the audience’s applause.

\---

On Tuseday, Eames invites Ariadne to the wagon he shares with Arthur for a pre-show dinner. She’s settling Dandelion into the horsebox after a long day of carrying kids in a slow circle.

“Are you dead bored?” she asks him apologetically.

“By what?” says a voice behind her, confused. She recognises the accent easily. When she first heard it, it reminded her of the kind of people her mother invited to garden parties, elitist and refined, but she can tell the difference now. His is so much more authentic.

“Sorry, Eames,” Ariadne says, patting Dandelion’s cheek. “I was talking to the horse, not you.”

“Ah,” Eames says. “And is he bored?”

“I expect so,” Ariadne says. “But bored is better than at my father’s mercy.”

“Ooh, you’re a runaway, are you?”

“It’s not quite that dramatic,” Ariadne hedges. Eames gives her a dubious look.

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says, magnanimously. “I’ve come to invite you over for dinner, anyway, so perhaps I’ll manage to get the full story from you then.”

Ariadne’s stomach clenches. Eames is fantastically attractive, but he must be at least ten years older than her and she’s only just arrived and she just wants people to love her here for being Ariadne, and nothing else, nothing _more_. “Look, Eames, don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

Eames raises an eyebrow, perplexed, as she trails away, words stuck in a nervous mouth. “It’s not that you don’t seem nice,” she begins again, “but I’ve only just met you, and—”

A look of realisation comes over Eames face. “I wasn’t propositioning you, dear.” Eames says, kindly. His mouth twists up. He looks kind of like he’s trying very hard to suppress a laugh. “I wouldn’t. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl…but…you are _definitely_ safe from me, I’m quite surprised….” He looses the battle against the laughter, clutching at his chest as he breaks down in a fit of it. “Arthur would…he would…if he heard…oh no….” Eames mutters between fits of hysteria.

Ariadne turns up her chin in mock defensiveness. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t realise the idea of dating me was quite so hilarious.”

“Sorry,” Eames wheezes. “Sorry. You’re great, kid. What I meant was, will you come over for dinner with Arthur and I.”

Later, Ariadne can’t believe it didn’t click right then. “Arthur and I”… _“Arthur and I”_ …. How could she have missed it? But she does. Instead she nods, pleased to be included in with the top performers and hopeful that it might mean she’ll be one of them soon. “Thanks for the invitation. It’s really nice of you. Everyone here is so nice all the time.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “Oh, just wait until everyone knows you well enough to start gossiping. Then you’ll see the true face of a circus crowd. It’s just because you’re new, and still under our wing.”

Ariadne must look nervous at that because Eames ruffles her hair. “No one’s going to put glass in your pancakes, Jesus. I just meant that circus people are a little wary. You’ve been treating people with respect, so they’ll return the favour. When they know you better, they’ll be themselves.”

“Right,” Ariadne replies, letting out a breath. “Well, what time should I be over?”

\---

Ariadne gets to Arthur and Eames’ wagon a little early. Arthur calls “Come in, it’s not locked,” when she knocks. She kicks her shoes of into the grass just outside and climbs the steps to enter.

The wagon is a little smaller than Dom’s and a little bigger than the one Ariadne is sharing with Lucy. There is a real, functioning kitchen. A pot on the tiny stove is bubbling away merrily. It smells amazing. Ariadne sticks her nose into the steam and breaths deep. It looks like Bolognese. A bag of dried pasta is sitting on the counter in the corner, so it seems like a safe guess.

There is a sort of half-bench, half-sofa against one wall. Ariadne sits on it, looking around curiously. “Is that you, Ariadne?” Arthur asks, still muffled. Ariadne’s wagon doesn’t have a separate sleeping cabin – everything’s jumbled up together in one big compartment, but this wagon is a little more house shaped. They have an actual door separating the beds from the living area. It’s weird to Ariadne that she’s only been in this new world for a few days, and yet she’s looking at things differently. This wagon looks luxurious to her, where three days ago she would have only been able to think that her old bedroom alone is probably larger.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Ariadne says. “Eames told you he invited me for dinner, right?”

“Yep,” Arthur says. “He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just doing his equipment check.”

Arthur pushes the door open, stepping out of the bathroom. His hair is slicked back stiffly, looking sleek and wet. He is wearing heavy eyeliner and when he turns something glittery around his eyes and along his collarbones catches the light. She imagines that the effect would be particularly pronounced in firelight.

“Ooh la la,” Ariadne says. She hasn’t actually had a chance to watch the evening show again since joining, but she intends to see Arthur and Eames perform together tonight. Even amongst the other circus workers, there is a sort of hushed reverence when people mention their performances. She’s beginning to worry that anything will be a letdown, the way it’s been built up.

“Do you like garlic?” Arthur asks, slicing a baguette and laying it out on a baking tray.

“Definitely,” she says. One thing her childhood had done for her was to instill a love of excellent food. 

“Good. Eames throws a fit if I don’t do garlic bread. We’re only having spaghetti with red sauce. Didn’t have the time for anything fancier.”

“Well it smells amazing.” 

She watches Arthur finish cooking. They talk about the next city they’re moving to and Arthur explains the process the whole circus uses to break down and pack up the camp. Eames appears at the door, bursting through and ruffling Ariadne’s hair and stealing the heels of bread and then disappearing into the bathroom in a storm of energy. As the sound of the shower starts up again, Arthur leans forward conspiratorial.

“He’s so excited, it’s ridiculous. He’s been going totally stir crazy, he hates not performing.”

“What about you? Are you excited to be in a double again?”

“Well, I’m still worried about that stupid shoulder pull,” he says, but his expression is telling. If she didn’t know better she’d call it longing, or something brighter and hotter than that. Want. Maybe desire.

Eames comes out of the bathroom similarly shimmering, sits down next to Ariadne and steals her glass of juice. He grimaces, as he tastes it. “I was hoping that was going to have vodka in it,” he confesses. Arthur shakes his head disapproving, yet fond.

“No drinking before a show,” he says, in a way that means he’s clearly said it many times before.

“It was only the once, darling. The drop was barely four feet.”

“Four feet into a pit of fire,” Arthur mutters to Ariadne. “A _pit of fire_.”

Ariadne tries to think of something to say, but Eames has already begun his reply, slinging an arm around Ariadne’s shoulder and laughing.

“He loves it in there. He was in the safety leathers, anyway. It was only five seconds before I pulled him out. He was all ashy and happy as a clam.”

“I’m not going to argue with him about it,” Arthur proclaims, setting the pasta on the table and pulling a green salad from the fridge. “Eames, set the table.” 

Eames smiles and turns to Ariadne again, who feels like she’s accidentally walked into the middle of a tennis match, looking back and forth and then back and forth again. “I wasn’t really drunk,” he reassures her. “I’d never let him fall by accident. Only on purpose. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea.”

“On purpose!” Arthur says, getting the plates out and handing them to Eames, who barely seemed to be paying attention, hands already out to take the plates even though he hadn’t even been looking at Arthur, hadn’t _glanced_ at him. “As though that makes it so much better.” But Ariadne can tell it does make it better. It makes a world of difference.

Arthur and Eames are not like anyone else she’s ever met in all her life, but it is not their individual quirks that make them so strikingly unique. It’s in the way they share the space in the room, and the space in their conversations as though each step or word has already been long ago predicted by the other. Ariadne has the strange feeling that if the world were laid out on graph paper a mathematician could probably come up with a simple equation that would show they always formed the base points of an isosceles triangle with whatever they were mutually focused on at the top. Together, they were the crosshairs of a gun, or security effortlessly covering both the front and back exits of the building or dancers twirling in opposite directions at exactly the same pace.

They talk back and forth about the finer points of their routine while they eat, Ariadne content to watch them, though they made an effort not to leave her out, avoiding technical language and even asking her opinion on a few things she might have an idea of coming from a voltiage background. 

“We’re running late, Arthur,” Eames says as they finish. “Let’s just leave the dishes. I’ll do them when we get back.”

Arthur looks unsure. “You’ll be too tired,” he says. “Or we’ll want to...” his voice trails lower and away, and he glances up at Ariadne briefly, as if trying to gauge her reaction. She has no idea what he is trying to say to Eames, and only looks blankly back at him.

“Uh, if you don’t mind me locking up your wagon for you, I’ll do them,” she says, into the bubble of silence that has formed. “As a thank you for dinner.”

“That’s great of you, cheers Ari,” Eames says. He looks amused by something.

They all stand up, Ariadne collecting the dishes and setting them in the sink and Arthur and Eames disappearing into the back bedrooms again muttering about costumes and what type of rope they were using. They leave a few minutes later, wearing coats over bare chests. Their thick, skin-tight leggings glitter and Ariadne laughs at them.

“Looking good boys,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says. “Don’t take too long, or you won’t get a good seat.”

Ariadne finishes the dishes and wipes the excess glitter off the table. The bedroom door hasn’t closed properly behind Arthur, and she doesn’t know if he meant to leave it like that but she is curious all the sudden. Just about the layout of the wagon, she tells herself. She pushes it open all the way. There is only one bedroom, with only one bed. The bathroom is an annex to the side. Like her own cabin, the wooden ceiling is painted, but instead of stars, there is a lazy pattern of greens over greens. It looks like a canopy of leaves in a Monet painting. Here and there are careful smudges of colour that give the impression birds. The same hastily added white ‘E’ that adorns the corner of her own ceiling is here also and she realises abruptly that it is Eames’s signature on his work. 

The cream coloured curtains are pulled shut, shelves lined with books, packs of playing cards and partially burnt out candles in glass holders. There is an ornate wooden chess set, the bow for a string instrument, and a pinboard with art postcards from museums around the country. Three pairs of shoes are pushed against the wall, two pairs of trainers in two different sizes and a pair of gorgeous black leather dress shoes. The bed is built into the wagon, painted cyan and made up with dark grey silky looking sheets pulled tight across the bed in precise, military lines. Two small chests of drawers on either side are being used as bedside tables. There is a cup of water on one and a pair of glasses, hand lotion and Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’ on the other. 

Two single men who have to share a bed absolutely do not inhabit space this way. Only one conclusion can possibly be drawn.

Ariadne steps out and pulls the door almost closed again, heart pounding like she’s discovered a secret, but she is also absolutely sure in the knowledge that what she has discovered is not a secret at all.

\---

The lights go out, plunging the tent into total darkness and he waits for the few gasps in the audience to die away until there is only silence and darkness and the ghost sensation of knowing exactly where Eames is, hovering in the gaping empty space above him. 

Arthur lights the first torch and it feels like waking up.

There is nothing in the world as good as performing with Eames. Arthur has always liked performing alone, with other fire breathers, or even other circus acts, and he is good at it. He likes the adrenaline and the feeling that comes over him when the crowd and Arthur and the fire are all sharing the same breath. He likes to play the violin, to watch Eames paint, good food, sleeping when truly exhausted, the rough drag of Eames’ hands down his spine and settling on his hips when they fuck, mastery: the satisfaction he gets from being excellent at something, these are all the things that Arthur loves above all others, but none reach the euphoria of a show night.

He transfers the fire to the remaining torches with his cupped hand, leaving him trapped in a ring of fire. He lifts the fuel bottle to his mouth, and the familiar wet, slick bitterness of liquid paraffin wax coats his mouth. He breathes it across the smallest torch in front of him, controlled and exacting. The flames roars up, lion mane bright reaching the first of five hoops suspended above them. The fire catches the first hoop, and Eames appears, as if from nowhere, dropping down to flip through the hoop. The crowd, until now silent in apt attention, goes wild. Eames catches hold of the swing again, and grabs Arthur a second later, pulling him up, out of the ring of torches. They follow a wide arc. This swing has long ropes, and they are nearly above the audience before they start the controlled fall backwards.

“Hi,” Arthur murmurs, in the moment they are out of the audience’s sight, too far from the fire even to appear as shadows. Eames presses his lips to the back of Arthur’s neck in reply. The spotlight snaps on, Arthur takes another mouthful of liquid paraffin wax, catches the flame of the first hoop in his hand and blows it out to the second and third and forth and fifth as they swing by, Eames cradling Arthur. And just like that, in the second flip, in the fourth mouthful of flame, Arthur looses himself, stops being one man with one name, and instead he and Eames become something else together, something like art.

He doesn’t remember himself again until they’re backstage. Dom gives him a thumbs up as he disappears through the curtain to wrap up the show and send the audience out. There aren’t many people in the dressing room. People usually get out of costume quickly and circle back around to watch Arthur and Eames when they’ve finished their acts. The two clowns taking their makeup off finish up just as Arthur and Eames appear. “Heard it was a really good one,” the shorter of the two, a middle-aged man named Gary who’s been with the company three years says.

“Yeah, I caught a glimpse, looked _sweet_ ,” the other says. Arthur can’t remember his name but he knows James loves him, trails him around like a puppy on his days off.

“Thanks, guys,” Eames wheezes. He’s still almost completely breathless. Arthur manages a wave as they clear out. Everyone knows how Arthur and Eames get after their act. It’s best to give them space.

“Fucking hell,” Eames manages to whisper, before his tongue is in Arthur’s mouth, kissing him and kissing him until Arthur can’t even stand up anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Eames is pinning him against a makeup table. They perform bare-chested for practical reasons, but it’s a bonus that it’s less clothing to get out of the way now. Eames kisses at the small red burn marks across Arthur’s shoulders, presses his hips against Arthur tight enough to hold him still so that he can let go of Arthur’s hips and free his hands for touching the old and new scars on Arthur’s arms. Arthur cries out, head falling back, eyes closing, mouth open like he doesn’t even know where he is anymore. 

“You were so beautiful,” Eames whispers. “You’re so beautiful.” He’s panting harshly, even as his mouth forms the words again and again, leaves them like bruises over Arthur’s collarbone and in the sooty smudges around his mouth. Arthur’s throat feels scraped raw. He must taste like butane and charcoal, but Eames moans when they kiss again.

“We shouldn’t...” Arthur starts to say. “Not here....”

“One more minute,” Eames gasps, and _god, it’s so good_. Eames’ stupid fucking shoulder has kept him from how good this can be this for weeks.

“I know everything you want,” Arthur says, pressing his fingers into the hollows of Eames’ hips in a way that makes him arch up like a cat, crying out as Arthur’s fingers drop lower. That’s what makes these moments feel dangerous and addictive and spellbinding. He and Eames are still so closely wrapped up in each other they can nearly read each other’s minds, like they’re sharing the same dream and every twitch of Eames’ body is a language only Arthur knows. He feels lit up from the inside, like he could breathe fire without fuel or flame and he wants to breathe the heat right down into Eames’ lungs. He bites at Eames mouth, hard and Eames surges against him pushing his legs farther apart making his hips burn with the stretch.

“Oh!” A small but distinct noise of surprise echoes from the doorway, jolting them both into the realisation that the world hasn’t fallen away around them.

Eames blinks dazedly, pulling away from Arthur slowly. Arthur feels his body follow Eames, like they are linked magnetically, even as his brain directs him to look around Eames and see who is at the door.

Ariadne stands on the threshold, eyes huge, mouth open in a small, round ‘o’. “I’m sorry,” she says after a full thirty seconds of all three of them staring at each other. “I should have...knocked?”

“No,” Eames says, voice coming out low and husky like butterscotch. He sounds totally drunk, slurring his speech and moving like all his joints are water. “I should have locked the door. Most people round here know to leave us alone after a show, but it’s not like there aren’t kids around and stuff. It’s my fault.”

“Right. Yeah. It’s cool. I just...wanted to tell you that you were truly unbelievable.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says trying to sound gracious and instead coming across as only mildly distracted.

She shakes her head like a dog shaking off water, and meets their eyes with a sudden steely resolve. Arthur swallows. He hadn’t thought Ariadne would be the type to judge them, but then again, she clearly hadn’t come from a very accepting home. It would be terrible to ask her to leave when she really had nowhere to go. She takes a deep breath before saying, “I really am sorry for interrupting, but I just had to tell you, from one performer to another that you were both the most stunning thing I have ever seen and I think that what you do together is just _exquisite_ and I wasn’t totally sure about this place before, but I know now that I’d have to be dragged away. They’d have to wrench me from this circus kicking and screaming because of how beautiful you and everyone else here is both on the stage and off, and I’m going now, so sorry again, I’ll see you later.” 

She turns on her heal, shutting the door behind her firmly, and Eames sighs, dropping his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, smiling against his skin. Arthur releases a little huffing breath of a laugh. “Dom sure can pick ‘em,” he says.

“Don’t I know it,” Eames replies.

“Shall we head back?”

“Yeah, I think the mood has been summarily ruined for a few minutes at least.”

They make it back to the wagon without having to stop and speak to anyone. Once home Arthur lays Eames out on the bed and massages his shoulder which is only a little warmer to the touch than it ought to be. They talk about how the show went which reignites the feeling of total synchronicity between them again as the conversation ends up following a pattern of, “Do you remember when—”, “Yes, and you—”, “Yes, and then—”, “You did it so well that I—”, “And then I—”, “Yes, exactly—”, until they’re kissing again like it’s another kind of conversation.

“Have you been angry at me about something?” Eames asks a little later. One of Arthur’s legs is thrown over his shoulder and all their fingers entwine and un-twine, restless as they move together. 

A wave of sadness sweeps over Arthur suddenly making him rock up into Eames until they’re pressed _impossibly_ close. “Not right now,” he says, feeling broken open. 

“You aren’t angry at me right now, or you don’t want to talk about it right now?”

“Both,” Arthur says, the end of the word tilting up into a moan. Eames twists his hips and Arthur looses his whole train of thought. Eames sees the moment that Arthur forgets where he is, even who he is. All the energy in Arthur seems to fold down into pleasure, and Eames makes himself let go, too.

\---

“If you drop that, I will make your life a living nightmare,” Yusuf calls as Eames stumbles under the weight of the trick magician’s trunk he’s carrying.

“You know you’re not meant to put actual bodies in these things,” Eames manages to grunt out.

“It’s all the swords I store in there. Sorry.” He doesn’t really sound very sorry at all. In fact, he looks like he’s really enjoying watching Eames haul all his equipment out to one of the trucks while he carefully packs up some of the so-called ‘delicate instruments’ of his art, which appear to mainly be colourful glass bottles useful only in terms of decoration. Yusuf’s cat climbs out of the box, looking quite irritated to find that his sleeping place is being hauled around and leaps off, significantly lightening the load.

“You ought to consider putting that beast on a diet,” Eames says, releasing a breath of relief as he sets the trunk down in the back of one of the many vans.

Yusuf sniffs, as though insulted. “Why don’t you go help Dom with the ticket office. It’s getting a bit late now, and you’re too lazy by a half to do this properly. Send me that new girl, she looks quite efficient.”

Eames agrees, ambling away. He’s always delegated to helping whoever asks for it on packing up day because Arthur has very particular ideas about how their things should be stored properly and he insists that Eames only gets in the way. It’s a somewhat recurring theme. Eames is not really well known for his organisational skills. 

After sending Ariadne out to help Yusuf, Eames heads out to the ticket office, which has been loaded onto its trailer and attached to a car. 

“Dom?” Eames asks, clambering through to door, which is a bit awkward to reach without the usual accompanying stairs.

“Eames?” Dom asks. “Is that you? Maybe you can make some sort of sense of this. Your degree is in math, isn’t it?”

“Yep, with a minor in theoretical physics,” Eames notes, snapping the desk lamps on to see better in the late afternoon gloom. “That doesn’t really lend itself to accountancy particularly well. Let’s see anyhow.”

Dom is leaning over a folding table completely covered in papers. “Mal always made it look so easy,” he says. Eames is glad to note that the guilt in his voice is nearly gone. Every time he mentions her, it seems to be with a slightly lighter heart. “I just need someone to look at this and confirm to me that we’re totally fucked.”

Eames glances through the sheaf of figures that Dom hands to him. “Is this the profit total, right here?” he asks, gesturing. “Saito is _not_ going to be very happy.”

“Ugh,” Dom says, clasping his hand over his eyes. “There’s nothing we can do against the competition of Fischer and Friends Circus Extravaganza. They’ve got established shows on the East and West coasts, and they’ve got all the animal acts. It doesn’t matter how authentic we are, or that we get better reviews nine out of ten times. The sheer size of Fischer’s company leaves us in the dust.”

“I keep telling you, if you want to make money, we’ve got to tour the European circuit. The interest is just bigger. We could draw crowds twice the size.”

“With what money?” Dom snaps. “With _what fucking money_ am I gonna ship the whole company across the ocean?”

Eames fights to keep the sneer off his face. It’s no use rising to Dom’s bait. Arthur would be pissed if they got in yet another fight. “I’m just saying. Saito has been asking you about it for years, I don’t get why you won’t even consider it. Fischer’s sucking the market dry in America, we need to hit a niche or we need to get out.”

“It was the show in France that killed her, Eames. If I hadn’t promised her France...” Dom says, staring at the floor resolutely.

Eames feels his fists clench, nails digging into the skin of his palms. “No,” Eames says, icily quiet. “No, it wasn’t, Dom. Mal killed herself because she was too ambitious and because she wasn’t using any fucking safety gear like a careless child, and I loved her and it shouldn’t have happened, but if you use her as an excuse to me one more fucking time I’m going to--”

“What? What are you going do? As if everything is roses in your personal life right now. I know you fucked up your shoulder because you were distracted by that letter from Fischer’s company.”

Eames’s mouth drops open in surprise.

“Oh, yeah. What, you think I don’t notice when Fischer’s people come scouting around. Well, I’m not an idiot. You fucked up because you feel guilty that you’re considering going. About leaving us. Yusuf, me and the kids, the whole team. Arthur. Thinking maybe you’ll just take the fame and fortune and disappear? When are you even going tell him? When are you going to _break his heart_?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, so shut the hell up,” Eames says, voice even lower than before, becoming quieter at the same rate that Dom’s pitch increases. He turns on his heal, throwing the papers down on the desk and wrenching the office door open to leave. 

Arthur stands on the other side, hands fisted at his sides, knuckles white.

“Arthur!” Eames says, feeling his stomach drop. “Arthur. Shit. Look, I was going to tell you about the letter, I just hadn’t--”

“Dom, could you leave us alone for a minute?” Arthur asks, voice deceptively even.

“Uh, I guess?”

“Thanks.”

Dom steps out of the trailer, jumping to the ground and pushing the door shut behind him.

“I already knew,” Arthur says quietly.

“What?” Eames asks, shell-shocked. 

“I know about the letter from Fischer’s Circus.” Arthur repeats. “I found it when I was looking through your bedside table for some scratch paper. I thought...I don’t know, I don’t really have a very good excuse for reading your mail, but I didn’t think it would be important. I just thought, ‘how odd, Eames has a letter from Fischer’. That’s why I’ve been mad at you for the last few days. I didn’t even think that you were considering going. I just...fuck, at first I just assumed you wouldn’t, I don’t know, I just...fuck.” He looks sick at the thought and Eames honestly wants to punch himself in the face for putting that expression there.

“You would have been right, Arthur. You’re right to assume I didn’t even think of leaving. But I’m afraid that you don’t know the full story?”

“What more could there possibly be?” Arthur asks. 

Eames feels conflicted for a moment. He wishes he could just tell Arthur to forget the whole thing. Then he sticks his hand into his pocket and draws out a slightly crumpled envelope.

Arthur is silent as he takes it to read, face almost perfectly inscrutable. Once he has come to end of the letter he folds it up again, puts it back into the envelope and tucks it into his own pocket. 

“So you see, I can’t really blame you for looking at my post, can I?”

“No,” Arthur says, face still unreadable. “I suppose not.”

“I called Fischer’s people and explained to them that we wouldn’t want to be separated and that offering you a place in the West coast show and me a place in the East coast one was great but that we’d be more likely to consider it if we were placed together, even if we weren’t performing together. Not because I wanted us to go, understand. Just because I wanted to have all the options ready when I spoke to you. But they said no. Apparently they’ve just got those two specific openings and they said their audience is too mainstream to appreciate the “quirkiness” of a fire-breather-trapeze double act.”

“And?” Arthur asks, apparently somehow sensing that there is more to the story.

“When I first met you, Arthur, all you ever talked about was being at the top. Being the very best at what you do. You’ve really finally got the chance to do it, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving. I was trying...I’ve been trying. It was easier when we weren’t performing together but, Jesus Christ, after last night. I don’t know how I was going to make myself tell you.”

“That’s it?” Arthur asks.

“That’s it,” Eames confirms.

“I think--”

The door bursts open revealing Ariadne, panting, hair wild and ash streaking her face. “There’s a fire,” she says, gasping between breaths. She’s clearly run the whole way here. “There’s been a fire. It’s taking out the wagons with the rides and the practise tent equipment. Dom sent me to get you.”

“Fucking hell,” Eames says, following Ariadne as she turns back from the room. Arthur follows close at their heals. It’s fully dark now, the blaze of the fire bright against a corner of the navy sky. It is smoking heavily. 

“Dom’s on the phone with the fire brigade,” Ariadne says as they run towards the flames. “But we’re having problems because we’re a little far out from the town. Technically we’re in the next county over, but they haven’t got a fire station for miles and miles. They’re trying to circumvent the problem, but it’s taking time.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Eames, I’ll take that, you get the--”

“Already on it,” Eames replies. When they’ve reached the burning wagons, Eames strides over to the gathering crowd of workers and Arthur makes a beeline for Dom.

“Get the children back. Laura, you’re in charge of keeping them away from the flames. May and Sara, get the hoses we use to wash the practise tent out. May, take the sandbags we use to hold the outside tables down in wind, and wet them down in the kitchen. Yusuf, gather up a few people and move the other wagons away so the fire doesn’t catch and spread.”

Leaving Eames to deal with containing the fire, Arthur grabs the phone from Dom. “This is Arthur Reed speaking. Put whoever is in charge on the phone, now.”

A bewildered voice replies on the other end of the line, “I _am_ in charge.”

“If you were in charge, this would have been fixed already, because I know a man in charge of a fire brigade wouldn’t be sitting around trying to find a reason not to do his job.”

“Sir, I’m trying to do what I can, but we’re legally tied here. We have to deal with insurance claims and local government, and....”

“Look, I’m going to make a call that’s going to make all these problems go away, so when I hang up, send out your men, and by the time you get here, everything will be just fine. Got it?”

“Sorry?”

“I said, ‘Have you got that?’”

“Uh...yes.”

“Great. See you in ten, sir.”

Arthur hangs up the phone and dials another number. The conversation this time is much quicker. 

“What just happened?” Ariadne asks. Dom stands next to her, watching Arthur’s phone conversation expectantly.

“Arthur wasn’t always in the circus,” he says, giving her an exhausted half-smile. Eames’ efforts are already beginning to subdue the flames. Sirens can be heard in the distance. “He’s a well connected man.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am pretty sure I’m actually legally obliged not to say anything more.”

Ariadne looks at him doubtfully. Arthur hangs up the phone and comes towards them, handing it back to Dom. “Anyone hurt?” he asks.

“No. We’d already finished packing this all up. The crew is all accounted for. As far as I know, no one was anywhere near here when the fire started. That’s why is grew to the size it did. No one around to notice.”

Arthur’s expression darkens. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want a look at the fire pattern after it’s put out. I’ve already had a good glance while it’s been live. Hopefully the firemen won’t mess it up too much.”

“Arthur, what do you mean?”

“Well, no one was hurt, the fire occurred in a totally abandoned area, but it’s probably totally destroyed some of our most expensive equipment. Even with the insurance this is going to cost us a fortune in both time and money.”

“You think it was _arson_?” Ariadne asks, looking truly shocked.

“I don’t think anything until I’ve looked at the pattern,” Arthur says shortly.

“Who would _do_ that?”

“Who do you think?” Arthur mutters.

“Fischer,” Dom growls, clenching his fists.

“As I said, I’m not drawing any conclusions until I look at the fire.” But the grim twist of his mouth as he makes his way over to Eames to be directed towards the hoses is an answer all in itself.

\---

“You smell like smoke,” Arthur says. It’s after midnight. The road is stretching wide and straight out in front of them. The rolling plains lining either side of the highway are a roiling sea in the windy, ink dark night. The caravan train created by the circus wagons moving on to the next town makes a long trail of colourful radiance that looks like a string of Christmas tree lights from far away. 

“You always smell of smoke,” Eames replies, letting his hand rest on the ledge of the open car window, buffeted by a cool breeze.

“Yes, but I come by it naturally, don’t I?”

“Everything comes naturally to you, Arthur.” He says it with a fondness so deep that Arthur looks away from the road for a moment. Eames is gazing at him, eyes warm and a little sad. He looks tired. They are all exhausted after the fire disaster of the evening, but the show quite literally must to go on. They can’t miss their dates in the next town or they’ll be short of money they’re now desperate for.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Arthur says.

“ _You’re_ sorry,” Eames says, incredulously. “What have you got to be sorry for? I’m the one who was keeping all sorts of terribly important secrets and being typically selfish and--”

“Will you just shut up for five seconds?” Arthur says, exasperated, but gentling his tone. “I’m sorry because I’m doing something really wrong if you think I’d leave you to work for Fischer’s circus.”

“What?”

“It’s ridiculous that you think I’d just drop the family I’ve built here with Dom and the kids and Yusuf and everyone else, but it crushes me that you think I care more about being famous than you. And this is all leaving aside the fact that I’m barely worth watching when we’re not performing together, because it is _you_ that makes me great. If Fischer can’t see that, than his fucking scouting agency is absolutely useless…. God Eames, I love you. _I love you_. I’m never leaving.”

“I...” Eames seems to realise that words are not enough. He leans across the space between them and kisses Arthur on the corner of his mouth. Arthur keeps his hands steady on the wheel but turns his head, leaning back into the kiss for a moment, pulling away just as Eames’ hand comes up to cup the back of his head. Eames slides his hand down to rest on Arthur’s neck. 

They are quiet for a long time, watching the road together with Eames’ fingers brushing the fine hairs at the nape of Arthur’s neck rhythmically. 

“You good?” Eames says.

Despite everything, the circus finances on the verge of spiralling out of control, their fight, the fire, when Arthur answers “Better than,” he means it with the most profound honesty he can manage.

\---

So. Here’s something not that not a lot of people know about Arthur and Eames. 

They may or may not have met as Interpol agents.

As it turns out, retiring from Interpol without actually letting them know about it (read jumping ship) makes it quite difficult to find a viable career path afterwards. As it turns out, the options look something like (a) criminal or (b) circus performer. Arthur and Eames have tried their hands at both. So far, only one has really stuck.

So. Let’s just say that maybe Fischer made the wrong choice trying to take down the Dream Circus from the inside and then the outside. Not that anyone is being threatening, here. 

Oh no. No one is making threats.

Arthur and Eames are _much_ too subtle for threats.

\---

Robert Fischer wakes up to the warm, sweet smell of hay and the familiar sound of father screaming at him. He levers himself up quickly, pulling strands of grass out of his hair and dusting spilled oats from his trousers.

“Robert Michael, get out of there right now and get this horse to stop kicking the door or I will have it taken out to the field and shot.”

Robert spits into his hand and does his best to smooth the front of his hair down. Royal Blue Flight is really having a fit now, kicking hard at the door until it bows out with every strike, which isn’t a surprise. He absolutely hates Maurice. None of the horses like him, of course, but Roy has a particular grudge against him. 

Robert presses his palm into the joint at Roy’s hip and the horse quiets immediately and turns into the motion, sidestepping until he is face to face with Robert. “Hush now,” he mutters, lips nearly touching the dryer-lint softness of the horse’s nose. Roy stills, ears twitching out from flat back tension.

Robert slides around to the stall gate as the oats that he has been sleeping in distract Roy. 

“Sir,” Robert says, letting himself out of the stall. Maurice is standing well back from the door. Robert has to squint against the glare of the sun after the cool dark of the stall. His father is wearing a dark suit and slick black leather dress shoes. He has a briefcase and a pinched expression. The fine white stable yard dust is already settling on the suit and ruining it. Robert becomes acutely aware of the fact that he is dressed in old grey cotton riding trousers and a partially ripped long sleeve t-shirt. 

“You were not at the business meeting I arranged for you to attend today.”

“Correct,” he confirms. There is no use giving an explanation. Maurice is not interested in what Robert has to say. That is a lesson he learned at an early age.

“In the future,” Maurice says, “for every one task I ask of you that you fail to complete, you will miss one of your performances. If this does not prove to be ample encouragement, I will begin to take away your horses.”

“Understood, sir,” Robert says. It’s not unexpected. It’s a threat that’s been used many times before. Robert is not bad at business. In fact he’s very probably excellent at it. But he also loathes it. Every now and then he slips up and hints to his father that there’s something else he loves so much that there isn’t any room for sales figures and marketing and knocking out the competition and right away he’s on probation again. It’s for the best. Robert’s been told what to do by his father his whole life and the boundaries are familiar and safe to him. Robert doesn’t do very well with free reign. No pun intended.

His father has become much smarter in how to deal with his son in the last few years. In fact, the only real mistake he’s made yet was nearly ten years ago now, to insist that Robert get some hands on experience in the circus. Robert took to that order like he hasn’t any other before or since. 

“When is the next meeting I’ll be expected at?”

“Tomorrow at ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“Very well.”

“Also, I expect you to be dressed appropriately. Not in that trash. You look like one of _them_.” Maurice gestures vaguely to the direction of the practise circus tent, which Robert takes to mean he looks like an ordinary circus performer and not the boss’s son.

“Obviously, sir.”

Maurice turns on his heel and walks away. Robert watches until he climbs into the back seat of his sharp black town car and drives off. Robert slumps down, leaning against the stall door. He can feel Roy’s hot breath snuffling at the bottom edge of the door, making Robert’s back damp. 

“Glad it was only you around to see that, Roy,” Robert says. He sounds exhausted to himself. Much older than his twenty-three years, but at the same time, embarrassed of his father like a child.

He knows what people think of him. They fall into two groups. All of his father’s associates think he’s a joke and a disappointment. Their opinions shadow his father’s. They can’t understand why he is incapable of looking at the Fischer and Friend’s Circus as just another branch of the franchise, existing to make money and nothing more. But, frankly, Robert doesn’t really care what they think.

It’s the other circus folk’s opinions that matter.

The things about Robert’s life that they don’t understand are more complex and more important. He sees them staring after his father has screamed at him, threatened his horses, told him he’s worthless and useless and that everything Robert cares most about is a mistake. They think that Robert’s an idiot for sticking around. Why doesn’t he just leave? And then the flip side: if he won’t leave, what is he doing hanging around with them. He should just join the business and be what he was born for. They don’t get why he insists on never quite belonging anywhere.

Robert can’t explain it. He doesn’t quite understand himself. He can’t make them understand that once he knew his father loved him and he’d do almost anything to get back to that place. Anything except give up his horses and performing.

The show goes particularly well that evening. Sometimes having a fight with his father can snap him into some sort of higher plane for a few days. It’s probably something to do with desperation, or with a need for the kind of blind animal comfort only the horses can lend. Robert doesn’t look into it too deeply. He is an expert at not thinking too hard about anything important.

The cloudless sky and absent moon make the night very dark and cold. Robert lets the stillness wash over him like rainwater. He is brushing down one of the youngest mares, a small, sleepy chestnut, when a young girl appears out of nowhere at the stable door. 

“Jesus Christ,” Robert squeaks, dropping the brush and slightly spooking the mare. He swallows his fear, knowing the horse will smell it and react badly and presses a soothing hand against the mare’s neck.

“Sorry,” the little girl says, not really sounding it. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to see the horses.”

“That’s okay,” Robert says. “But you should be careful. Horses don’t ever like being surprised.”

“I know. Ari always tells me to walk louder when I come up behind Dandelion. I just forget.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be wandering around out here? Who are you parents?”

“No. I just watched the show.” The girl explains. “It was okay. Not as good as _my_ circus obviously, but your bit was the best! Ari says it’s really hard to get horses to listen to you so well. She says you’re making it look easy but I shouldn’t believe you. It’s like your talking to them with your mind! I want to learn to do it too, but Ari says Dandelion probably won’t be very good at that kind of thing.”

“Look, not that I really mind myself, but you shouldn’t be back here. Why don’t you go…run along and find your parents.”

“My dad isn’t here, though,” the girl pouts.

Robert pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“Do you need help finding the people who _are_ looking after you? This ‘Ari’ person, perhaps?”

“Not really,” the girl says. “I want to know about the horses some more. Can I pet her?”

Robert sighs. “One little pat on the nose, and then you have to let me help you find your parents or whoever.”

“Deal,” the girl says. She clambers onto the stool in the corner of the stall. The mare turns round to greet her and snuffles at her sweater, which makes the girl giggle. Robert smiles despite himself. She pulls a few sugar cubes out of the pocket the horse was particularly interested in.

“Cheat,” Robert says, good-naturedly. The girl grins up at him cheekily. 

The girl strokes the mare’s nose for a long moment.

“Okay,” Robert says. “Time to go.”

“Fine,” the girl says, clearly disappointed. She steps down from the stool and takes the hand he offers. 

“So, who are we looking for?” Robert asks, leading her in the direction of the public parking lot.

“Either an Arthur or an Eames or an Ariadne.”

“What do they look like?”

“Well… Eames is easy to see from far away, cause he’s pretty tall and he’s really English so you can pick out his voice in a crowd and he’s wearing a blue shirt today and…”

Robert begins to suspect that he’s bitten off more than he can chew when he spots three people standing in a tight circle arguing with each other in the otherwise empty lot. There are two men and one woman, turned away so that they most likely won’t notice Robert and the girl’s approach until they’re right upon them.

By the time Robert is close enough to hear them, they’re beginning to look frantic.

“Stop telling me off, Arthur. Eames was supposed to be watching her while you went out to find the--”

The girl is quickly silenced by the dark haired man, “Shhh, don’t talk about it out here, anyone could overhear. This is a fucking parking lot for Christ’s sake. Undercover 101.”

“Well _sorry_ if I’m not trained up to your satisfaction, but it’s not my fault she’s missing so don’t try to take it out on me.”

“The two of you ought to calm down. She’s probably just gone to see about the horses and she’ll turn up any minute.” The broader of the two men says in a low-voiced Englishman’s drawl. 

“We don’t _have_ a minute to spare, and you’re the one who lost her so if you could just keep your mouth shut for one second and let me think,” the other man snaps.

“How are we going to get into the office—”

“Ariadne, _don’t talk about it_ ,” both men say in unison.

Robert is concentrating so hard of figuring out exactly what they’re talking about besides the missing girl he doesn’t notice the curb coming up and accidentally drags the girl right over the edge. She trips up, crying out as her knees scrape against the gravel. 

The group of three turn instantly and the little girl starts sobbing, huge gulps that Robert knows are as much from surprise as pain.

“Aw, fuck,” Robert says, “I mean, crap, I mean, no, sorry. Hey, shhh, you’re gonna be okay.” 

He picks her up and her arms go around his neck like an octopus even as she cries, “No, no I don’t want you, I want Arthur.”

“I’m sorry, shhh, shhh, I’m sorry. You’ll be okay.”

The group is quickly crossing the parking lot now. “Pippa?” the woman calls, “Pippa, is that you.”

“Ari,” she girl says, and begins to cry louder, somehow managing to make Robert feel like a total monster even though he hasn’t really done anything wrong.

The dark haired man reaches them first, holding out his arms. Pippa breaks away from Robert, lunging across the space between them to wrap herself even more tightly around the other man. She buries her face in his neck.

“Come on, Pip, it was only a little fall, you’ll be alright,” the English one says, coming up from behind to rest one hand on her shaking back.

“I’m sorry I ran off, Eames,” she says, unwilling to look up at him.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry about that. Is that why you’re crying?”

“Arthur was gonna yell at you,” she mumbles into the man Robert presumes must be Arthur’s neck.

“It won’t be the first or last time,” he says, soothingly. “No tears, right. You’re too grown up for that.”

She sniffles a few times and allows Arthur to shift her around so she’s propped against his hip. Arthur wipes at the tear tracks running down her cheek and smoothes her hair down. “All right?” he asks.

Pippa nods solemnly.

“Can I put you down so Ari can have a look at you knees?”

Another nod. He sets her down gently and finally turns, seeming to only now notice Robert.

“I’m so sorry,” Robert says. “I was trying to work out if you looked like the guardians she described and then there was the curb and she just went right over.”

“No worries,” Arthur says. “Thanks for bringing her back over. I hope she wasn’t getting into trouble?”

“She wanted to see the horses.”

“Ah, I should have guessed.”

“Told you,” the other man, who Robert presumes must be Eames says, sullenly. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Arthur Reed,” says Arthur, holding out his hand to shake.

“Robert Fischer,” Robert replies. The name seems familiar to him, but he can’t remember where from.

“Yes, I know,” says Arthur.

“Right, obviously,” Robert says, feeling the beginnings of a blush. “The performance.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, he pauses for a moment, as if trying to make a decision, and then, slowly, he adds, “But I also know your father.”

Robert is unable to prevent himself from grimacing. “Oh,” he says. “Of course. My dad. I guess I better be going. I need to finish putting the horses up. I’ll be busy with the business tomorrow, so I won’t have time then.”

“The business? I didn’t know you were interested in that side of things,” Arthur says.

Robert wonders where on earth Arthur could know his father from that would give him that impression. It seems like Maurice spends a good half of his time with Robert trying to prove to other people that the whole horse thing is just a hobby and that his true interests lie with the annual sales figures and the merchandising distribution and whatever the fuck else he’s supposed to care about.

“Umm, yeah,” Robert says. Then, going out on a limb, he adds, “You must know what he’s like. I’ve got to take time with the horses where I can get it.”

Arthur smiles. It’s a thin and sharp thing, like the edge of a knife. For some reason, the incongruous thought that Arthur must be very intelligent pops into his head.

“I certainly do,” Arthur says. He turns around briefly and shares a look with Eames, the kind of look that’s a whole conversation. “Listen Robert,” Arthur says. “If you ever want a chance for some more free time, maybe you should give me a call.” He hands Robert a business card he hadn’t even noticed Arthur take out of his pocket.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Robert asks, genuinely bewildered.

Eames laughs, but Arthur just looks at him, disconcerting.

“No,” Arthur says. “I’m offering you a job.”

They turn away as one, and Robert watches them as they cross the parking lot. Eames wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist and Ariadne holds hands with Pippa. Only Pippa turns back to look at him, offering him a half wave that Robert returns almost unconsciously.

He has the distinct feeling he was being offered something much greater than just a job and that Arthur knew it.

\---

“What was that?” Ariadne asks once they’re in the car, headed back to the circus. She leans forward from the back so that her head is poking through the two front seats. Phillipa shifts on her lap. “Are you even kidding me. What happened to the plan? I thought we were going to steal the records from Fischer’s office so we can work out how to make it look like he’s embezzling. We just…we just talked to his kid and _left_?”

“Oh darling,” Eames says. “Welcome to a life of crime. Lesson one is to go with the flow.”

“Tell her lesson two, Eames,” Arthur says, with his sharp smile.

Eames grins as he answers, his teeth catching the flash of headlights from an oncoming car. “Lesson two is always play the long con when you get the chance.”

\---

Months pass and a day doesn’t go by without Robert taking that card out of his pocket and turning it over and over in his hands. He looks the circus up, reads reviews, watches one of their performances online. Ariadne, he learns, is the newest performer, started only a week before they’d met in the parking lot. The arch of her foot in the air and the tiny glimpse of empty space between the horse and her hands as she flips, before she fits back into position like she is a part of whole – he nearly weeps. Arthur and Eames – shadows in an orange, half-light glow steal his breath. The edges of the business card begin to fray. 

He reads an article in the paper about how the Dream Circus nearly lost one of their necessary permits on a mere paperwork technicality pointed out by an anonymous letter. He clenches his fist around the business card. The number in now unreadable, but Robert has it memorised.

Men in high positions in his father’s company begin to retire without notice or reason. The company looses shareholder faith. Robert spends the day in a business meeting about increasing revenue and his father suggests they figure out how to stop bothering with the measures they take to comply with animal rights. Wouldn’t it be more cost effective just to threaten an official every now and then, Maurice asks? 

Robert gets drunk that night and composes an angry letter to his father. He doesn’t do anything with it, just crumples it up and shoves it in the drawer. It makes him sick, what a coward he’s turned out to be. Or maybe that’s just the whiskey.

In the morning, the letter is no longer in his desk and Roy is no longer in his stable. Robert is gone by nightfall.

\---

Dom runs into a horse as he leaves his trailer. He has a curious sense of Déjà vu. “You aren’t Dandelion,” he says, looking the horse up and down. It’s dapple-grey and eating the paperwork he’s dropped everywhere. He looks up. A young man with posture that’s too stiff and eyes that are too blue, like the Gulf of Mexico in July, stares forlornly back at him. Four more horses crowd together at his shoulder.

“Oh no,” Dom says. “We do _not_ have room for this.”

“Hello,” he says. He’s soft-spoken and polite, but there is a sense of pride about him. A self-righteousness he was trained to – it doesn’t come to him naturally. He comes from money and carries it uncomfortably. “My name is Robert Fischer and I’d like to join your circus.”

Jesus Christ, Dom really needs to see a doctor about these fucking headaches.

\---

“Have you seen him yet?” Ariadne asks. 

“Nope,” Eames says, peeling posters of their old merchandise off a wooden board. The new shipment came in this morning and apparently Eames has been delegated to organise it. James is balanced on his hip, sleepily sucking his thumb. 

“Your sister would be teasing you so much right now if she saw that,” Ariadne points out. James glares and stubbornly keeps his thumb in his mouth.

“If looks could kill,” Eames murmurs good-naturedly.

“You must know a few rumours, at least.”

“Well,” Eames demurs. “It’ll cost you…”

“What?” Ariadne asks. She puts on a fake pout. “I thought we were friends.”

“Which job are you on right now?”

“Passing out schedules for this week’s performances and breakfast and dinner shifts.” Ariadne answers, gesturing to her armful of papers.

“Brilliant!” Eames grins. “Someday you’re going to have to teach me how you always get the good jobs. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I know if you switch with me.”

“Fine.” Ariadne rolls her eyes.

“Right,” Eames says, lowering his voice into that particular tone reserved for gossip. “Arthur’s been in and out of the meeting with Dom all day. Robert is definitely all set for joining up.”

“But how are we going to pay for the horses and everything. He’ll bring a bit more revenue, especially since he’s the golden boy of Fischer and Friends, but we’ve only just begun to make ends meet again.”

“That’s the brilliant bit. In return for a performance spot, space for his little herd of horses and his own wagon, he’s going to invest the majority of his trust fund into the circus. They’ve got Saito on conference call to set up the business side of things. Robert also already owns a good bit of his father’s company which he’s going to sell off on the open market to weaken his father’s power over Fischer and Friends.”

“Wow,” Ariadne says, honestly a little astounded. “This is some serious shit, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t even gotten to the best part.” Eames announces, gleeful. “Robert’s got a head for business, you know. He thinks I’m right about touring Europe and he told Dom that’s he’s been going about advertising all wrong. Finally someone with some fucking sense!” 

“You think Dom will listen?”

Eames looks thoughtful. “It’s too soon to tell right now. Dom’s never been very good at being told what to do, but at the same time the biggest problem he’s had listening to Arthur and me is that Mal is always lurking there in the background of every conversation like a ghost of the mistakes we made together. Having new blood will be good for us.”

“Aren’t I new blood?” Ariadne asks, sniffing, but not really offended. She sets the weekly schedules down on the tables and picks up the glitter glue Eames had been carefully working round the edge of each new merchandise poster.

“The very newest,” Eames answers, voice twisting on ‘new’. Ariadne gets the message. For all she is a rising star, if she has learned nothing else since coming to the circus, it was that she had first arrived knowing nothing at all.

“Ariadne?” A voice behind them asks. 

Ariadne’s blood runs cold. She feels her hands begin to shake. Eames notices immediately and grabs hold of them, looking past her, over her shoulder at the voice.

“Mother?” Ariadne whispers. Eames’s grip tightens around her fingers. Slowly, she turns around.

It’s been nearly six months, but they don’t look any different. Even her father’s beard is trimmed exactly the way she remembers, close and dark. The beard of a man who pretends at carelessness, but is, in fact, entirely obsessed with controlling everything down to the last minute detail.

“Father,” she says, a toneless acknowledgement.

“Ariadne, my dear, we’ve been so worried,” he mother holds out her arms as though she honestly expects Ariadne to run into them. 

She hears Eames make a noise behind her, a long, low whistle in a minor key. She recognises it immediately. It’s a warning noise he and Arthur use in performance, if one of them notices something wrong with their equipment or has an unsteady grip.

Arthur appears around the corner nearly instantly. He stands out of sight of her parents, examining the situation, planning, forming the escape route. It’s a look she’s come to know well and one she is sure Arthur learned in that other mysterious life he led before he became a performer.

“We’ve come to bring you home Ariadne,” her father says. “It has taken us so long to find you. But we’re here now. I am sorry that you felt the need to test us, but we can forgive you.”

“The last thing I am interested in is your forgiveness,” Ariadne says tightly. She wonders how it is possible for a man who has known her all her life to misunderstand her so completely.

“My sweet, we’ve missed you. Please.” Ariadne thinks her mother sounds like she’d stood in front of a mirror to practise her lines. It makes her nauseous.

Eames’ grip begins to loosen and Ariadne holds on convulsively. He is having some sort of silent conversation with Arthur over her parent’s shoulders.

“Why are you really here?” Ariadne asks. “You’ve had six months. I definitely didn’t cover my trail that well. Tell me, why now?”

“You turn eighteen in two months, dear heart. Don’t you want to become a grown woman at home? We want to show society our beautiful daughter. We’ll have a party. You can wear a white dress. It’ll be the event of the year.”

“It isn’t the nineteenth century anymore, mother. Grow up. And anyway, I know that isn’t the reason. I’ve always been little more than an embarrassment in front of your friends.”

“You wanted to go to a good university. My connections at Yale—” he father begins. 

“Tell me the fucking truth,” Ariadne spits.

“Ariadne, dove, your grandmother’s will—”

Ariadne smiles. “Oh, I see now.” She lets go of Eames’ hand. They don’t have anything on her after all. It’s just about money. She should have guessed. Even Arthur looks a bit relieved. “You wanted to bring me back into the fold before I came of age for my inheritance. Well, tough luck. Maybe you should have thought of that before you stopped speaking to me or looking at me or barely even making sure I was fed as soon as it became clear I’d never be the docile debutante you wanted in a daughter. Give me a son, or a puppet and I was neither.”

“If you want that money—” her father snaps. Showing his true colours now, at least.

“If I want that money I just have to wait another two months. It’s _mine_ and you can’t get your hands on it. I know. I had it checked out and explained to me.”

Her father looks livid. “By whom? By your white trash boyfriend there, with the tattoos and that grubby cap and the unwashed child, doubtlessly the offspring of one of his previous _sluts_?”

Ariadne turns to see whom he could possibly be referring to. After a moment, she realises he’s talking about Eames. It makes her laugh. Apparently it’s funny to Arthur as well because he begins to laugh too. He’s standing close to Ariadne’s mother, having approached silently from behind, and she nearly shrieks as she catches sight of him at her shoulder.

Ariadne is still busy trying to reconcile ‘white trash’ with Eames, who paints like Monet on lazy Sunday afternoons and Miro when he’s drunk and Rembrant when he’s trying to get on Arthur’s good side; Eames, who makes this incredible avocado and grapefruit salad with lemon-cilantro dressing; Eames, who has never missed an episode of ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’; Eames, who reads comic books, who is so English he trips over it; who claims he did his post-doctorate at MIT, and maybe isn’t even lying about it.

It is as though her parents are caricatures of the cruel and wealthy and they can’t help but see every one else in the same two-dimensional plane of existence. For the first time in her life, it doesn’t make Ariadne angry. It makes her sad.

“No, “ she says, “Not by Eames. By _his_ boyfriend.”

They aren’t even listening. 

“I’m not going back with you,” she says. “And you can’t make me.”

“You aren’t eighteen yet,” her father says. “By law, I can.”

“Unfortunately not,” Arthur says, crossing in front of Ariadne’s parents to stand shoulder to shoulder with Eames. “Ariadne is an emancipated minor.”

“What?” he mother says, stunned.

“Yep,” Ariadne chirps.

“Surely we would have been informed?” her father demands.

“She had the paperwork sent to your office. Your secretary who quit a few months ago is a friend of mine,” Eames explains.

“You have no right to –!”

“No, _you_ have no right,” Eames says. “Now if you don’t mind turning yourself around there and heading right back to your car. It’d be a shame if I had to rough you up in front of my illicit love-spawn, here.” Eames shifts James’ weight on his hip. 

“Ewww, Eames,” he says, around his thumb.

Ariadne’s father grabs his wife by the sleeve of her coat and turns around, tugging her after. “Let’s go,” he says sharply when she fails to hurry.

Ariadne stands frozen as they leave. She feels Arthur’s hand on her shoulder once they’ve disappeared from sight. “You alright?” he asks, gently.

She shakes herself, smiling up at him. “Better than,” she admits. It’s a surprise to her, how utterly right she feels with the world. 

Now, Eames will complain that it isn’t fair he always has to play the muscle while Arthur gets to play the man with the answers and Ariadne will ask what the hell they think they’re talking about, don’t they know they aren’t international spies anymore and Eames will tell her cryptically that once a spy is always a spy and she’ll finally get him to promise to teach her to pick locks. They’ll walk to the ticket office and Phillipa will be trying to alphabetise the bills from Z to A. Dom will be fighting with someone on the phone about ordering more oats and hay and Robert will be sitting in the middle of the chaos looking utterly lost. Ariadne will think, _is that what I looked like when I first arrived?_ She’ll wonder when she stopped looking so afraid all the time. She’ll want to say to Robert, _stop worrying, you’re home now._ But she’ll hold her silence.

There are no shortcuts to teaching the lesson of found family, but it will happen for Robert just like it happened for her. They’ll teach him that from the outside, the life of true circus folk looks like a story of what gets left behind, but from the inside it’s about being one piece of a whole that will always carry him through even as he carries it – it’s about being the wind. 

\---

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(See below for full text of Independent Article) 

**Dom Cobb’s Dream Circus is on the rise** _Where did they come from, where are they going and can one motley crew of American Circus performers who were nearly unknown a few months ago really bring a love of the circus back into the mainstream?_

In recent decades, the circus has come to be something of a lost art. Certainly Cirque du Soleil will pull a really spectacular new show out of the bag every few years, there are a few longstanding circuses around the world with enough nostalgic value to continue pulling in crowds and for the last few years, Fischer and Friends has been lording over their corner of the American entertainment market. But now there are new players on the scene. 

I say new, but in fact, Dream Circus has been around for nearly ten years as a small travelling carnival winding it’s way back and forth across the US. Dream Circus’s owner, Mr Saito claims that if the circus continues its trend of success in this years’ venue shows across the UK and in select stages throughout Europe, they may bring their road show along next season, which will include traditional rides, smaller performance tents to go alongside the big top show and other attractions. Dream Circus’ recent rise, Mr Saito claims, is almost as much to do with better handling of the business side of the company as it is to do with changes made to the show’s acts. 

Over the weekend, I got a chance to see the Dream Circus in the opening night of their show Inception at the Royal Albert Hall. It was honestly the most spellbinding theatrical performance I have seen this year. Dream Circus inexplicably manages to embody a brand new twist on modern carnival shows that steps distinctly away from the precise art of Cirque or the mass-produced, sickly sweet cheer of Fischer and Friends while at the same time capturing a magic that transports you instantly back to child-like wonder. 

The performance has most of the familiar elements of classic circus performance – clowns, tightrope walkers, a magician, a flock of doves, equestrian tricks, fire dancing, and a trapeze artist all ruled over by the clever and whimsical ringmaster Dominic Cobb. It is not the individual elements of the show that create its truly unique allure, but the unexpected way they are put together. 

Equestrian vaulter Ariadne Westmere is the newcomer, only nineteen and with no previous professional experience, yet the vitality and subtle enthusiasm brought to her performances show why she is a fast-rising star, already being courted by the Voltige giants of France. Yet Westmere shows no signs of being tempted away from Dream Circus. In their last few shows, Westmere has begun to do a small section of her performance in a double act with fellow horse performer, Robert Fischer. Fischer’s horse whispering was renowned long before he joined the Dream Circus as possibly the only redeeming quality of Fischer and Friends Circus Extravaganza. His split from father Maurice Fischer and defection to Dream Circus was huge news in the entertainment world for months, and probably brought a lot of press attention to Dream Circus. Luckily, it seems the attention was well deserved. Since moving companies, Robert Fischer’s act has gone from the sharp-edged and short-lived bursts of brilliance in otherwise nearly timid performances to something like release, an unfolding of creativity and control over his horses that never seems overbearing, only delicate. 

Despite the strength of Dream Circus’s many other performers, the undeniable backbone of the show is the fire-dancing and trapeze-ing duo, Arthur Reed and Eliot Eames. 

After last May’s Interpol-Wikileaks scandal, there was a host of rumours claiming the pair were ex-Interpol agents, now untouchable thanks to the released information. Some claim the rumors were actually started by the Dream Circus as a marketing hoax. Neither Reed nor Eames have ever confirmed or denied the reports. Yet, it isn’t difficult to see why such seemingly ridiculous speculation gained ground so quickly after watching them perform together. 

There is something dangerous, almost chilling about the utter ease with which Eames floats through the air through walls of flame spun effortlessly into existence by Reed’s hands. The duo’s most recent trick is to ask a member of the audience to tell one of the two to do some previously unknown stunt, which the other must intuit in order to avoid both of their imminent fiery deaths. It seems utterly impossible unless they can actually read each other’s minds. There is something devastating about their performances, an element that seems unplanned. Every movement is like the elegant afterthought of its predecessor. It would come across as messy if Reed and Eames didn’t tie everything together so tightly between themselves with striking chemistry. 

But then, that does seem to be the true charm of the Dream Circus. Dream Circus shows are never accused of looking polished or exact. No two shows are ever the same. The order, the funniest and most astounding moments of each show, the acts themselves have a spontaneous, home-grown quality about them. The performers seem to be in a constant state of flux halfway between dysfunctional family and heartbreak. 

I caught up with Dominic Cobb, manager of the circus as well as its ringmaster, for a few minutes during opening night’s after-party. The gathering was relatively small, mostly performers and guests and only a few fellow members of the press. Cobb was standing towards the back of the room, on his own. “What’s on your mind, Mr Cobb?” I asked, trying for joviality. He turned, surprised, perhaps. I introduced myself, and repeated my question. 

“Watching my daughter,” he said, gesturing. Cobb’s two children are known for occasionally appearing with the clowns at the beginning of shows. Some speculate that the death of Cobb’s wife and mother of his children, Mallorie during a tightrope performance in the second night of the company’s first attempt at a European tour nearly five years ago is the real reason for Dream Circus’ long period of relative anonymity. 

I turn to follow his gaze. The girl is perched on the edge of the bar, sandwiched safely between Arthur and Eames (as he prefers to be called), with Ariadne standing near. As we watch, Arthur leans forward to wipe some of the glitter from their performance costuming off Eames’ cheekbone and Ariadne offers the girl a tiny sip of her champagne. Robert appears a moment later, looking like he’s about to scold Ariadne, but instead offers the girl a little sip of his own red wine. The girl makes a face and the adults gathered around her laugh. 

“I’m proud of the life I’ve built for my children,” Dom tells me. “I never thought I could be, a few years ago. That’s all you really need to know about us.” He shook my hand and crossed over to the little group of performers, clasping Robert on the shoulder and ruffling his daughter’s hair. 

He was right, of course. What makes Dream Circus so great is that the people involved aren’t doing it to put on a show; they’re doing it to build a life. 

LUCY FLETCHER

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. My campaign to let every piece end in SHMOOP is successful yet again. TROLLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.
> 
> 2\. Sorry about how Ariadne’s life was like cliché no. 345 from the book of tragic pasts. At least I tried to make her an interesting comparison of similarities with Robert??? Is that excuse enough??? No. No, I know. It’s a circus fic, alright. Just be glad I didn’t have her under the threat of being sent to a nunnery, which was genuinely my first plan.
> 
> 3\. In case I was a bit vague about what exactly Robert does in his show, he is a horse whisperer, kind of like Jean-Francois Pignon. Here is a youtube video of a bit of one of his shows: [( **CLICKY** )](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQtKMgtlVTw&feature=related).
> 
> 4\. Title lyrics are from White Lies, _Farewell to the Fairground_.


End file.
